Total pages in book: 45
Estimated words: 43787 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 219(@200wpm)___ 175(@250wpm)___ 146(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 43787 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 219(@200wpm)___ 175(@250wpm)___ 146(@300wpm)
There’s only one way in and one way out.
The windows are small, oblong, set high across the top of the walls—like little skylights. No way I could fit through them. No way escape at all.
I turn just as Riot steps back, away from me.
He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t even look at me as he reaches for the handle. "Wait—" My voice shakes as I step forward, fear consumes me, "What—"
But before I can finish, he slams the door in front of my face.
Then I hear it.
The unmistakable click of a lock engaging.
My breath hitches, and I rush forward, panic filling me as I try helplessly to open the door.
It doesn’t move.
I pound on the door, panic rising in my throat. "Riot!"
Silence.
I bang my fists harder, slamming into the steel. "You can’t just lock me in here!"
Nothing.
I press my ear against the metal, listening for movement outside, but all I hear is the sound of my own heart beat rushing through my ears.
I’m alone.
I step back, my lungs crushing against my ribs as panic climbs inside me with every passing second.
My hands tremble as I dig into my pocket, grabbing my phone like a lifeline. I pull it up, pressing the screen—
No signal.
The little zero bars mock me from the corner of the screen. No calls. No texts. No way out.
A single, broken sob escapes my throat.
Sliding down the door I get to the floor., my back hitting the cool steel of the door as I curl into myself, my fingers clenching the phone in my lap.
I don’t know how I’m getting out of this.
And for the first time, I have no idea who the Hell can help me..
But one thing is very, very clear. This isn’t just about a shipment gone wrong.
This is about me.
CHAPTER 7
DAMIAN
The night air is thick with humidity, pressing against my skin like a second layer. My Harley-Davidson growls beneath me as I take the last turn onto the narrow dirt road leading to her. The only light comes from the pale sliver of the moon, barely enough to cut through the darkness, but I don’t need it. I know exactly where I’m going.
And I know exactly what I’m about to walk into.
My rage burns low and steady, a slow-moving fire that’s been threatening to consume me ever since Alaina called in a panic. Ever since I heard that tremble in her voice, that slight crack when she realized what had been dropped at her back door I have been an inferno of rage inside.
That wasn’t supposed to happen.
That was never supposed to happen.
What I do, what my club does, it doesn’t touch innocent people. Alaina Vasiliev is as naïve as they come. Konstantin wants it that way and for good reason. Well, that was what he said five years ago when he asked us to allow her to build her business in our building downtown. If he is keeping her away from his world, and she damn sure isn’t part of mine, how did she end up with the pallet?
I have so many questions plaguing me about this. Why anyone is fucking with her? Konstantin has spent years keeping his business world separated from his personal life. Even before moving to Freedom Falls, nothing from work came home with the Russian bastard, and he was a legitimate business owner back then. What started as a way to fund his wife’s care at a skilled nursing facility became a world he can’t walk away from despite how much he has tried to legitimize himself.
His brother is a pakhan in the Morozov Bratva. An organization his father began in Russia back in the thirties. The whole lot of them are ruthless bastards. I swear anyone in the Vasiliev family with a set of balls is willing to eat their damn young. I thought Konstantin was different. He left Russia to live the life of a law abiding citizen with his wife Sasha. In Florida they had a quiet life. When Sasha needed specific memory based care, he moved them to Freedom Falls to be closer to her facility. None of that comes cheap. Boris, being the big brother and boss back home swoops in and offers Konstantin the revenue necessary to cover Sasha’s care.
All he had to do was filter the dirty money through a legitimate business. That business being of Boris’ choosing brought The Velvet Hall to life. The more time passed, the more Boris asked of his brother. After Sasha passed and Konstantin wanted to simply own and operate his strip club without the felonies for money laundering, Boris declined his desire for change. From there, the pressure to move drugs, guns, and hell, even people fell on Konstantin. That’s when he came to me. I paid the buyout to Boris for the strip club. For years, things have been business as usual.